Gratias tibi, Domine
by wayward-tiger
Summary: Sequel to 'Sacrificial Lamb'.


His bare feet barely made a sound as he paced his way through the long corridor that led to the king's throne room. He had woken in a panic when he heard the sound of heavy chains dragging through the hall outside of his sleeping chambers; the smell of fresh blood hung heavy in the stale air of his accomplished prison. After waking with growing dread of what poor punishment might befall his brother's captive if he didn't move fast enough to end it, Dean rolled from his soft linens and tossed on his only lose-fitting article of clothing—a long-sleeved sheer mesh robe with deep red coloring.

Dean had to learn quickly after he handed himself over to the control of his brother that he was no longer required—or rather allowed—to wear clothing any longer. Sam had preferred to keep Dean stripped of any garments that were deemed non-revealing; he was usually forced to adorn a plethora of silk and leather lingerie pieces. Dean was expected to remain at the king's side at all times except for if Sam was dealing with an important matter that was too much effort for his queen to grasp. When he wasn't at his king's side, Dean was forced to stay cooped in his chamber room; furnished with only a mammoth gold canopy bed and mirrored vanity set.

Dean remembers the first night he was made to sit beside his king—it was the same night he was introduced to the devil's army. He was held by his wrists to kneel in front of the throne, atop the dais before the massive legion under Sam's rule. His brother shouted his victory that echoed through the halls, "Welcome our holy virgin—your mother queen!" Dean closed his eyes with shame and twisted his neck as far from view as possible, his ears heard only the pleased cries of the demons, "Long live the king and queen!"

Blinking the memory away, Dean approached the gated doors of the throne room. Behind the barrier or wood and gold, Dean could make out the harsh sound of a whip cracking against the flesh of a solid body; he could only pray there wasn't much damage made yet. With a breath of courage, Dean shoved both gates open with his hands and plowed forward into the vastness of the room.

"Stop!" Dean shouted at the top of his lungs, causing the large demonic figure holding the whip to still his actions.

From his place on the throne, Sam looked down at his queen marching closer, "What is the meaning of this, Dean?"

Dean reached the bottom of the dais where Sam's captive was forced to his knees with his head covered in a burlap sack, his back was bare and bloodied with inevitable scarring from the demon's whipping. The man's body was shaking, covered in a sheen layer of glistening sweat as he panted heavily through the coating of fabric.

Dean stood in front of the kneeling, bloodied prisoner and looked up to his king, "What has this man done to deserve such punishment?"

Sam smiled before answering, "This man has committed crimes against our sovereign force. He has continually disrupted my dealings with no provocation," Sam explained before pointing to Dean's place by his side, "Now take your throne, my queen."

Dean looked from the prisoner to the pile of furs and linens at the top of the dais. He didn't want to argue with his king any further if what Sam said was true—Sam had after all promised to no longer harm innocent people. If the person at the base of Sam's feet was there, then that could only mean that he was indeed guilty for unprovoked resistance.

Sam peered at Dean, motioning for him to hurry to his side. Dean slowly nodded and placed himself atop the furs in a kneeling position. He looked up at Sam and gently smiled before slightly nodding his head in understanding.

"Thank you for understanding, Dean." Sam smiled down at his queen, running a finger over Dean's plump bottom lip, "Please continue!"

The executioner-like demon raised his hand holding the strong leather whip to pull it down on the prisoner, "Yes, my king."

Before the demon's arm could be brought down, the bleeding man stirred to awareness beneath the burlap cover on his head.

"Dean?" the prisoner's rough voice spoke.

Dean's eyes widened at the recognition of his own name. He glanced again from the prisoner to his brother, only to find Sam's expression darken with anger.

"You will not address my queen in such a manner." Sam growled through his thinning lips.

As if the man didn't hear the boy-king's demand, he spoke again, this time with more volume, "Dean, is that you?"

"Silence!" Sam barked, rising to his feet in front of his throne.

"Master?" Dean whispered from his still kneeling spot on the floor, "How does he know my name?"

"Dean?" The prisoner spoke again, now growing louder with each moment.

Dean looked up at his brother with pleading eyes, "Who is your prisoner?"

Sam regarded his brother's desperation, but gave only a silent nod in the direction of the bloodied man. Dean rose from his throne and stepped down from the dais to stand in front of the boy-king's prisoner. He pushed aside the demon, and with one shaking hand he pinched the lose fabric ends of the sack covering the man's head and pulled it off. The kneeling man decidedly kept his head down, covering his face in the space of his chest as he shielded his sensitive eyes to the burning white light of the room.

"Show me your face." Dean ordered the prisoner.

The man did not respond, only straightened his hunched, bloodied back.

"Who are you?" Dean asked again, this time taking his palm and setting it under the man's chin to lift in his direction.

"I'm surprised to hear you don't know who I am, boy." The prisoner spoke as his head was slowly raised, "I've only helped wipe your ass for how many years."

Dean's green eyes widened and flooded with unshed tears as he covered his mouth in shock and turned to his brother—his king, "Sammy, you can't—"

"Watch how you speak to me." Sam warned from his place atop the raised plateau.

"It's good to see you again, Dean." The prisoner attempted a crooked smile; partially hidden behind the unruly strands of gray beard hair.

"Oh my God, Bobby, I'm so sorry…" Dean kneeled beside his friend, allowing his weight to fall on Dean's shoulders.

Holding Bobby in his embrace, Dean looked back to his brother with begging eyes, "Master, you cannot do this. I implore you to reconsider his punishment."

"I will not." Sam monotonously spoke.

"But he is our friend!" Dean cried.

"He is no friend of mine," Sam began, "A friend would not attempt to overthrow a king from their rightful throne."

"This is Bobby we're talking about, Sam! You can't do this!"

"I can and I will, Dean!" Sam stormed forward into Dean's personal space, gripping his wrist tight between his long fingers, "I am the king, and I have been threatened by this man."

"This man has been a father to us." Dean pleaded.

"I have no need of a father anymore—We are meant to fill the burden of Adam and Eve; we alone will become the world's new mother and father," Sam sounded almost demented to Dean's ears, "This man will be punished accordingly."

"Please…"

Pulling Dean to his feet and dragging him by his wrist, Sam carried his queen back to his throne. He threw Dean to the ground and cuffed his wrist with chains to the gold hooks of his own throne. Dean attempted to tug at his restrains uselessly as he watched his brother step back down to Bobby's side.

"I promised you the pardon of innocence, my queen," Sam spoke as he pulled a silver dagger from his inner suit pocket, "but I cannot turn a blind eye to the advancement of my sought-after demise."

Sam held Bobby upright by the scruff of the older man's neck; he tilted him backward just enough to expose his naked chest to plain view. Sam took his dagger and ran a sharp, deep line down the center of the man's chest, starting at the dip of his collar bone to the top of his belly button.

"You should've thought about what you were doing, old man." Sam snickered as he tore the blade away from the wounded flesh.

"Please stop!" Dean sobbed as he pulled at his chains.

"I wish I could've saved you, son." The old hunter looked up at Sam with a look of sorrow and disappointment.

"You needn't bother." Sam hissed as he plunged the blade into the side of Bobby's gut, dragging it along the expanse of his stomach to complete the shape of a Petrine Cross.

"I only wish I could've been a better father to you than your own daddy was." Bobby's breath was growing unsteady and his body slumped backward onto his bound wrists.

"Help him!" Dean begged both Sam and the executioner to help his old friend.

Bobby began choking, spitting up splashes of blood that dribbled from his cheek. Sam stood over the man and rested his foot atop the apex of his gut and pushed down.

"It's a true shame that we must end this way," Sam sighed, staring down into the hunter's fading eyes.

Sam kissed the outer petals of the red rose he pulled from his breast pocket and dropped it to Bobby's stilled heart. Dean could see the hunter take his last breath as the blood bubbled and gurgled inside the man's throat. The body stilled and Sam retreated.

"What did you do to him?" Dean cried hatred apparent in his tone.

"He tasted the nectar of the devil's serpent." Sam calmly replied as he took his rightful seat at the haloed thrown.

Dean's eyes widened and a snarl made an appearance on his face, "You poisoned him."

"I only did to him what he would've done to your mind, had I let him live."

"You're a monster." Dean accused.

"And you are my queen."

Sam grinned at his queen as he motioned for the executioner to take Dean back to his chambers; Dean was too exhausted from the recent act of distress to fight against it. As Sam watched Dean be escorted out of the throne room, he stared down at the unmoving corpse of his once friend and smiled.

"Thank you, Father."


End file.
